Master of the House. Justine Elyot
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matching nose rings, which was nice.
‘How was the fete?’ asked the guy, I think he was known as Animal, more because he was a drummer in a band than because of any anti-social habits.
It was an innocuous enough question, but it sent both of them into paroxysms of giggles.
‘Great. Mum, do you know who’s taken the lease at Willingham Hall?’
She tried to focus, but the effort required was too great.
‘What? Dunno. Hey, did you know Lord Lethy … bridge … died?’
‘I just found out. Joss’s not living there, I suppose?’
She shrugged.
‘Put a brew on, will you?’
That was Animal.
‘Do it yourself.’
I huffed into the bedroom, which was not mine, but the only place I could get a bit of peace and quiet and breathable air. I opened the window wide, replacing fragrant smoke with dry dog food and hamster bedding. Not much better, to be honest. I shut it again.
Lying flat on the bed, I looked up at the mobiles on the ceiling.
The room was sparsely furnished – a wicker bookcase, a reclaimed dresser covered in cheap beaded knick-knacks, a spider plant. It wasn’t much to show for a life, I thought. Mum was nearly fifty and this was everything she owned. But she was happy. Perhaps I should take a leaf from her book, travel light, live for the moment.
You’re so serious, Lucy-in-the-Sky. How did I make such a square?
Whenever I was around mum, I felt like a teenager again. My rebellion had taken a mirror-image form from the usual. No trying to get into nightclubs with a bottle of smuggled cider for me. I’d joined the Vale Operatic Society and spent my spare time reading about the politics of central Europe.
But at night, in my bed, I’d been less sober and sensible. At night, I’d thought about Joss and the cold look in his eye when he laughed at my distress.
I can do what I like to you became something other than a threat in those lonely bewildering nights. It was a dark promise, a hint of unspeakable pleasures that I could only guess at. I would remember how it felt when Joss twisted my arm behind my back and the recollection of my helplessness reached a pitch of such intensity that it seemed natural to put my fingers between my thighs and rub.
I hated myself for seeing his face when I came, but it was his face I always saw and his name I always spoke in the drugged aftermath of orgasm. It wasn’t exactly pleasurable – it was too guilty and furtive for that – but there was nothing I could do to change it.
I tried to tell myself I wasn’t mad for feeling this way, but I had my doubts. In reality, I hated him for everything he had done to me. The Joss in my head was not the Joss of flesh and blood but a fantasy creature I could warp to my will. I suppose, looking back, it was my way of dealing with how badly he had hurt me. Perhaps it wasn’t the most emotionally healthy way of processing it, though.
I sat up. I didn’t want to be thinking this. I wanted to know what was going on at the Hall. I didn’t want to sit through mum’s bloody Chumbawumba album either. I still had the general office number for Willingham Estates on my mobile phone.
I took a deep breath and dialled.
Obviously half past five on a Saturday afternoon in June wasn’t going to find the place manned, and I resigned myself to having to leave a voicemail message, but I was surprised when the ringing was cut off after two beeps and a female voice answered.
‘Willingham Estates, hello.’
‘Oh. Hello. You’re in.’
‘Yes. May I help you?’
‘Well, I was just wondering if Lord Lethbridge was available. I need to ask him something.’
A pause.
‘Who is this, please?’
‘So he is still living at the Hall?’ I could barely speak and I had to hold the phone tight to prevent it slipping from my sweaty fingers.
‘Who is this?’
‘Lucy Miles. Can you tell him Lucy Miles would like to talk to him?’
‘Lucy Miles?’
There was a kerfuffle and the next voice I heard knocked all the breath out of my body.
‘Lucy? Is that you?’
‘Joss.’
‘Aren’t you in Poland or something?’
‘Hungary. No. I’m back. You’re still there.’ My words came out in stupid monosyllables while the laconic drawl I’d been aiming for whirled somewhere out of reach.
‘Of course. You heard about the old man?’
‘Yes, just now. I’m sorry.’
‘Thanks.’
To call the silence that followed awkward would be like calling Antarctica a bit nippy.
‘So, er, to what do I owe the pleasure?’ he said, saving me from having to blurt some nonsense.
‘I’m just … you know … got back from Hungary and thought I’d say hi.’ It sounded lame and I thought perhaps I should return my journalism qualification to the college that so mistakenly conferred it on me. ‘Wondered if you might like to …’
‘Meet up?’ he said. He sounded quite eager, for some reason. ‘Yes. We should have dinner. Catch up with each other. When are you free?’
Well, this was surprisingly easy.
‘Oh, any time, really.’
‘Tonight? What about the Feathers at eight? I know it’s short notice but I’m busy tomorrow and it looks as if I’ll have to go to London next week so –’
‘No, tonight’s fine. I can do tonight. The Feathers.’
‘It’s changed a lot since you left. I’m not some cheapskate trying to fob you off with a microwaved pie and crinkle-cut chips.’
I laughed.
‘I know – I went past it earlier. Where will I go now for my Vimto and crisps?’
It was his turn to laugh, and the genuine warmth of it, with a little hint of regret, snagged at my heart like a fish hook.
‘Oh, Lucy-in-the-Sky-with-Vimto,’ he said.
Stop it or I’ll cry.
‘Eight in the Feathers, then,’ I said, determined to sound businesslike. ‘Will you book?’
‘Leave it with me. See you later then.’
‘Yes. Goodbye.’
‘I’m looking forward to it,’ he said softly before hanging up.
What a bombshell to leave me with. But it was all just veneer, I told myself sternly, simply the standard-issue Lethbridge charm, taught on the playing fields of Eton and showered over all and sundry.
More importantly, what was I going to wear?
I went for the snake-print shift with the shoulder ruffle. It was vital that I looked grown-up and sophisticated, a woman in control of her destiny. I wanted the traces of what I was before I left Willingham to be completely erased, so that he had to double-take and harbour some doubt that I was the same person.
At least I was driving, so there was no chance of overdoing the wine and getting maudlin or antagonistic or, worst of all, amorous.